An excerpt from Dave Dyer’s forthcoming fictional autobiography called “A Life I Could’ve Had…”
I should have known this wouldn’t be your garden variety dinner date when I asked what time I should pick her up and she said I could “shove chivalry up my ass” and just meet her at the restaurant. When I arrived, I saw a stretch limousine at the front door and a 10’ foot box truck right behind it with the words “If I Could Turn Back Time…” painted on the side.
I walked into what looked like a beehive firing on all cylinders; one team was setting up lights, another was rolling out a red carpet, and a third was spraying all of the seating with an antibacterial mist. I also noticed that there were no other customers in the joint. I walked up to the Maitre D and asked if my date had arrived. With an exasperated tone and bags under his eyes that added at least 7 years to his actual age, he replied, “What the hell do you think?” He informed me that she had rented out the entire establishment so we could have some privacy and then said I had strict instructions to take a seat in the corner booth and sit quietly as “the show would be starting soon.”
About 5 minutes later, the lights dimmed and an offstage mic came on announcing the accolades I already knew; the Oscar for Moonstruck, the marriage to Greg Allman, the alleged banging of Tom Cruise, and on and on. Truth be told, I really wasn’t in the mood for this kind of an extravaganza. All I wanted was a nice evening out with the sweet, shy girl from El Centro I had met a week earlier at Joy Philbin’s dinner party. But, since she was one of the biggest stars in the world and my cheap ass didn’t have to buy a ticket, I figured “I’ll hunker down and see what happens.”
A spotlight shone down on her entry point as she appeared from behind some makeshift curtains wearing a sheer red, erection-inducing Bob Mackie number that left so little to the imagination that my imagination had a boner, too. I changed my mind about the “inner extravaganza” spiel and succumbed to the fact that if nothing else, I would finally have a credential that would help me woo the much sought after and loyal-as-hell gay demographic that loves to spend money.
She made her way over to the booth and sat down….a cumbersome move given the lack of athletic flexibility built into her garment and one that jostled sequins and feathers loose from her headdress. Shiny and fluffy objects rained down on the table coating my soup and salad, covering the butter and making it look like a caterpillar; if Liberace were a caterpillar.
Naturally, I made it all about her and asked about every phase of her life and career. Before she launched into each chapter, she’d take a 10-minute intermission and change into an outfit that matched the mood of the next period of her life. I was OK with it until she came out covered in movie blood and fake flesh and started telling me how horrible Sonny’s hand-to-eye coordination was.